


Adventures in Office Romance; or, His Rumpled Secretary

by harriet_vane



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harriet_vane/pseuds/harriet_vane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Harlequin romance novel, starring bandboys. Yes, that involves many of the clinchy, shmoopy clichés you’re thinking of. In which Brendon is Spencer's secretary, and somehow Spencer has never really noticed him before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adventures in Office Romance; or, His Rumpled Secretary

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't post this fic anywhere else, please don't distribute it anywhere, please don't put it on goodreads, and really really please don't link it to anyone being written about here. Thanks!

  
Spencer loves his job, but he hates the stress of traveling. In order to get the urban planning contracts signed and finished there are lists and lists of things that need to come with him; files that have been printed out and electronic ones that need to be uploaded. His clothes need to look just as good when he arrives halfway around the world as they do hanging in his closet, and Spencer has to handle himself just like there is no such thing as jet lag. And as if the Wu contract isn’t worth several million dollars.

He opens the closet and looks at his suit jackets, all hanging neatly pressed with shirts and ties coordinated for each. Spencer takes a lot of pride in looking good. He reaches for two blue shirts and the three coordinating ties.

“No,” says Brendon, not looking up. “You don’t have room to pack all of those.”

Brendon’s sitting on the bed with his Palm Pilot out, making notes with his very serious face on. Spencer can tell, because he’s humming Mozart under his breath, not pop music.

“I need shirts,” Spencer grumps.

“We’ll be gone for three days. You can’t pack five shirts. Not unless you’re going to check luggage, and you hate waiting for luggage in international airports.”

Spencer hates when Brendon’s right. It’s unfortunate, therefore, that he basically employs Brendon to be right about this kind of thing. There had been nine secretaries in eight months before Brendon, and none of them had been able to keep up with all the things Spencer needed done during the day. Spencer was sure his file at the temp agency had a giant warning sticker on it, although he’d never set out to be difficult. He just worked long hours, on important projects, and he demanded that everyone working for him be as capable as he was.

Brendon had been an accident. One of those happy accidents of fate that started with Spencer nearly turning him down as soon as he walked in the door, and has ended with Brendon running his life.

Spencer turns, hands on his hips. “Do you have everything?”

“Almost,” says Brendon equably. “You still owe the guys over at Homes for Humanity a phone call.”

“Hippies,” Spencer mutters under his breath, and Brendon flashes him a quick glare. “They hate me,” says Spencer. “It’s not my fault I’m not good at working with them. Their budgets are non-existent—“

“Non-profit,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes.

“—and they’re always going on and on about using green materials and green methods which they can’t afford.”

Brendon just looks at him, one eyebrow up and lips quirked. Brendon drives a horrible little hybrid eco car that has no trunk space or leg room.

Spencer snaps, “And what are you wearing? Not that. You represent a prestigious architectural firm—“

“You represent them, I just represent you,” says Brendon absently. He’s wearing a sparkly silver t-shirt under a tan sports jacket, jeans, and purple sneakers. He knows better than to dress that way when Spencer’s seeing clients in the office; Spencer’s read him the riot act about it often enough. “The Saporta file needs to be printed out, I’ll go back to the office and do it when we’re done here.”

“And then you’re coming back here to pick me up for the drive to the airport?” Spencer asks. “Go now. I can pack without you.”

“You’ll bring seven pairs of shoes,” says Brendon, looking up. He shakes his head. “You can’t be trusted.”

“I did just fine before I hired you—“

“You were a _wreck_ before me,” says Brendon without any heat behind the words. He knows it’s true; Spencer rarely says it, but the rest of the office does. Brendon is the reason Spencer’s sure he can pull this contract off. Spencer’s gone on international trips before, but never anything this important, or worth this much money. There’s a lot of pressure, and he knows he can handle it but it still makes his blood feel bubbly, and his stomach flop. He isn’t going to say out loud how much he’s relying on Brendon, but they both know.

“You packed button-up shirts?” Spencer asks.

Brendon makes a face. “Of course,” he says.

“And ties? Neutral ties?”

Brendon rolls his eyes. “No,” he says, “I’m gonna bring the tie with the penguins on it, and the sweater your mom knitted me for Christmas. With the kitten on it.”

Spencer is not convinced this is an entirely empty threat; Brendon has trouble resisting temptation when temptation strikes him as hilarious. “Which shirts?” he asks.

“The white shirt,” says Brendon patiently. “That you made me buy. And the pink one. And the blue one. Three days, three shirts. Except I’m going to wear the same one on the flight in and out, so I have something pressed to change into. Okay?”

His condescending tone isn’t entirely lost on Spencer, but Spencer turns back to his closet anyway. He grabs a couple of ties, because Brendon only owns ridiculous ones. “Pack mine,” says Spencer, holding a red tie up against Brendon’s cheek.

Brendon’s expression is amazingly long-suffering. “I’m not your dress-up doll,” he says. “You know Weird Gerard down the hall calls me that, right?”

Spencer doesn’t care what Weird Gerard in advertising down the hall says about anything. It’s very important to Spencer that Brendon represent him and look presentable. He doesn’t, on his own, manage it very well. Spencer had nearly sent Brendon back to the temp agency the same day he’d been sent in; he’d been wearing jeans and a t-shirt, for starters, and sparkly sneakers, and he’d bounded into Spencer’s office like he thought it was a dance party. Spencer’s first instinct had been to simply say, “No,” and send him out.

But the agency probably wouldn’t have sent him anyone else for weeks, Spencer knew, so he’d pointed sternly at the desk and said, “Work on the to-do list.” And an hour later Brendon had knocked, a little tentatively, on his door, and said, “It’s all done. And I’m Brendon, by the way.”

Spencer had been too busy that week to worry about replacements, and then he’d turned around and Brendon had everything in the office organized. He knew every client and every file and Spencer suddenly had time for things like dinner and sleeping. Of course, that just meant he took on more projects, and Brendon spent more time in the office with him. He hadn’t thought about replacing Brendon again, and good thing; if Brendon ever left Spencer knew his life would collapse, like a house of cards with the table pulled out from under.

“It’ll be fine, look,” says Spencer, trying the green tie with the subtle blue checks instead. He loops it around Brendon’s neck and does up the knot, because Brendon can never get that entirely straight. Brendon stops fidgeting with the phone and goes still, probably because he doesn’t want Spencer to choke him accidentally. Spencer gives it a little tug and says, “See? That’s fine. Not with the pink shirt, obviously, but it’ll work.”

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, looking at the floor. He’s still not moving, not until Spencer takes a step back to make sure he’s got the knot straight, and then Brendon, buzzing with energy, jumps to his feet. “I’m going back to the office to pick up the files, is there anything else?”

“You have the Palm Pilot; you tell me,” says Spencer, waving his hand.

“Honestly, you’d be lost without me,” says Brendon. He shakes his head. “I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour. Please don’t have an entire bag of shoes to check through.”

“I won’t, don’t worry,” says Spencer. He really only needs three pairs for a weekend. Four, maybe. “Don’t forget the translation documents. And the passports. And the visas. And—“

“It’s all packed already,” says Brendon, with a tiny eye roll. “I just need to go get it. Relax, please. This weekend is going to be fine. You’re going to get the contract. There is no need to worry.”

Spencer’s not worried. He’s a professional.

\--

Jet lag feels a lot like being hung over, without the fun of drinking. Hong Kong looks strange; the streets are too wide, the sky is too low, there are too many wires overhead, and too much neon, twisted into strange shapes that Spencer’s brain doesn’t recognize. He feels illiterate, and it makes him twitchy. It’s early morning, but his brain is telling him it’s past time for bed.

“Hey,” says Brendon, sitting on Spencer’s bed. His eyes are a little red, and he looks as tired as Spencer feels. He spent the whole flight typing up transcripts so Spencer can review them before the meeting tonight. “He’s going to want to take you out for drinks. You should get some rest beforehand.”

Spencer has been staring out the window, looking down over Hong Kong, trying to get his brain to accept that he’s really here, not in a movie somewhere. “I can’t sleep,” he says firmly. He didn’t sleep on the plane, either. “I won’t get back up. But you can go lie down for a while.”

“I’m fine,” says Brendon, around a badly-hidden yawn. He’s hunched over the laptop on Spencer’s bed. Except not hunched, because Brendon’s posture is always impeccable. “Did you look at the list of customs and greetings? You really ought to.”

“I looked,” says Spencer. “I know, I don’t pour my own drink, I bow, I introduce myself by last name first.” Brendon twitches a little, but doesn’t look up. Brendon is terrifyingly good at managing Spencer, and usually Spencer pretends not to notice, but it’s harder tonight, when he’s tired. “I’m crabby,” says Spencer finally. “There’s no point in you being here right now, you’ve already done everything.” He is, as always, grateful for Brendon’s efficiency. “Please go get some rest. If we’re up late tonight one of us has to know what’s going on.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, as if this is a terrible injustice being asked of him, but he closes the laptop. “If you need anything, I’m in 812,” he says, which Spencer thinks he knew, but of course Brendon booked the rooms and Brendon handled the front desk. Brendon leaves his extra keycard on Spencer’s bed and waves vaguely as he leaves. Spencer is too hypnotized by the city to wave back.

It feels like New York or London, but it’s not like them at all. All the cars are the wrong shape, and the streets are too crowded. Spencer stares and stares. His brain is shutting down, layer by layer, and he knows if he doesn’t move around soon he’ll end up asleep, and no good to anyone for the meeting tonight.

He forces himself to stretch and walk around the hotel room a couple of times. He should have made Brendon stay, so he’d have someone to talk to. Brendon could have told him more about his nephew’s dinosaur adventures, or what hideous Disney musical is coming out in the theaters this year. Spencer likes listening to Brendon talk, even when he doesn’t give a damn about the things Brendon is talking about. Before Brendon there were a string of secretaries whose names Spencer couldn’t even remember. Since Brendon there’s only been Brendon, and Spencer has maybe been a little crazy, the way he keeps him around all the time.

Spencer sits down with the contracts and transcripts. Brendon’s clipped them all together, with helpful labeling notes that Spencer can’t understand -- _lst 1st 4 st_ and _w smith 4 3 day_ , whatever that means. He flips through, looking for the one he needs, the precedent for this contract, which ought to say SUAREZ on it in big letters. Wherever it is, it’s not in the pile.

He waffles, but it’s not as if Brendon will be mad at him for knocking on the door. Brendon’s amazingly patient, even when Spencer wants to kick and scream and yell at people. Brendon just gets quiet and snippy under his breath. It took Spencer months to realize Brendon got mad at all.

Spencer grabs the key card and goes down the hall, counting off rooms. The numbers are the same, thank god, although Spencer thinks maybe they use different numbers in Asia. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t find Brendon. Fall apart, probably.

He knocks on 812 and waits. Brendon is usually prompt. This takes a second, and Spencer wonders if he’s fallen asleep already. He doesn’t feel guilty, though; this is Brendon’s job.

The door opens, and there’s Brendon. Spencer blinks. He’s changed clothes, and he’s wearing glasses – big black hideous glasses that make him look like the president of the science club in a particularly geeky high school. His hair is sticking up everywhere. He’s wearing a pink t-shirt that’s too small – it must be too small, Spencer thinks, because it’s pulling across his chest and shoulders – and a pair of pajama pants that drag on the floor.

Brendon smiles apologetically. “These aren’t mine,” he says, tugging ruefully on the pants. “I had to borrow them from Shane.”

Spencer stands there for a second. His brain has stuttered and stopped, because all he can think is _This isn’t how he looks in the office. He’s… Rumpled._ and then he gets stuck on “rumpled,” but he doesn’t know why. “Who’s Shane?” Spencer asks, and thinks that if Brendon says ‘my boyfriend,’ Spencer will hit someone.

“My roommate,” says Brendon. “What’s up?”

Spencer can’t remember why he’s there. He’s known Brendon for fourteen months, and he’s never, ever had this problem before. Brendon has always been the too-loud, too-chatty person who knew when all of Spencer’s most important meetings were.

Now he’s standing barefoot on an expensive hotel rug, and his pajama pants are falling low on his hips, exposing the pale skin between his t-shirt and the waistband. Spencer doesn’t know what to do. “Suarez contract,” he chokes, using the little part of his brain that’s not thinking _sleepy. Rumpled._

Spencer tells himself firmly, _Secretary. Professional relationship. Friends._ It doesn’t help much. Brendon looks tired and vulnerable and open in a way he never does at the office. It makes Spencer’s stomach swoop.

“Oh, shit,” says Brendon, and disappears into the hotel room. Spencer follows automatically. He wishes he weren’t so tired, because he doesn’t have the energy to control his brain.

Brendon leans over the suitcase, open on the floor, and Spencer has a whole new set of problems. Did Brendon always look like that? Was his ass always so… Obvious? Spencer shudders and drags his eyes away, staring at the ceiling instead.

He looks rumpled and sleepy because he was in bed.

Brendon in bed. This is what he looks like when he wakes up in the morning, after spending the night with whomever it is Brendon spends the night with.

Fuck.

“It’s – Hang on, I know it’s here somewhere,” says Brendon. Spencer looks over again, and wishes he hadn’t. Or else wishes he could require Brendon to wear low-riding pajamas to work every day, fuck, they cling, and Spencer wants to touch, to grab.

He tells himself firmly, again, to stop. “I—I’m gonna go,” he says, choking a little awkwardly on the words.

Brendon turns, puzzled. “I’ll find it in a second,” he says.

The bed is right there. Spencer could – Spencer _can’t_. “No, it’s fine, I remember what it says,” Spencer says, backing up a step.

Brendon runs a hand distractedly through his hair. _Bed head_ , thinks Spencer’s traitorous brain. _Sex hair_. “Can you give me another minute, I know—“

“You get some sleep,” Spencer says firmly. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

He runs back to his room and makes himself take deep breaths. He sits on the edge of the bed and grips the comforter with both hands, until his knuckles go white.

He has no idea if Brendon has a boyfriend. Maybe his roommate is his boyfriend. Spencer ought to know this; he spends every hour of the day with Brendon, usually six days a week. He knows Brendon has a big family, and he has the impression that Brendon fights with them sometimes about something. There are lots of nieces and nephews who like dinosaurs; Brendon had a collection of toys on his desk before he mailed them off around the holidays.

They talk, but they mostly talk about business. Spencer’s not sure if Brendon even considers him a friend. He might just be Brendon’s unreasonable boss, the one who keeps him in the office until one in the morning and makes him come in on weekends.

Spencer has a vague idea that Brendon probably doesn’t want to be a secretary for the rest of his life. He has no idea what else Brendon might want to do.

Spencer picks up the phone and presses buttons until an operator helps him call back to America, chirping happily in heavily British-accented English about how glad she is to connect him.

The phone rings a few times. Right. It’s night at home.

“…Uh,” says Ryan’s voice, barely awake.

“I’m having a problem,” blurts Spencer, and then stops. He’s not sure what to say, not even to his best friend of twenty years.

There is a pause. “Okay,” says Ryan finally, voice gravely and rough. “You gonna tell me what it is?”

“It’s… I’m in Hong Kong,” says Spencer. That seems safe.

“So this is costing you, what, five dollars a minute?” Ryan agrees. “Spit it out.”

“I… I can’t… It’s _Brendon_ ,” Spencer says.

Ryan yawns. “Oh,” he says. “Did you finally notice?”

Spencer almost drops the phone. “What do you mean?” he chokes.

“Brendon,” Ryan says back, mocking a little bit. “Jon and I were wondering how long that would take.”

“Ryan,” says Spencer firmly. “You couldn’t have known. I haven’t told you what the problem is yet.”

Ryan is trying not to laugh. He has the worst fake-serious voice ever. “Let me guess, then,” says Ryan. “Brendon’s hot. You just noticed.”

“His pants!” Spencer says, and wishes again that he’d gotten more sleep.

Ryan does laugh this time. “Yeah,” he says. “They’re kind of obscene, aren’t they?”

Spencer frowns; Ryan should definitely not have seen Brendon’s pajamas. “What?” he says.

“His jeans,” Ryan says patiently. “They’re all… tight. I think he buys them at Baby Gap.”

Spencer’s brain goes briefly blank, trying to remember what kind of jeans Brendon wears. He’s never really noticed. He has a vague impression that they’re tight, and he remembers yelling at Brendon last year to wear more vests and button-up shirts and sports jackets, but he’s never noticed specifically. He feels like he would have, if Brendon’s pants had always shown off his ass like that.

“No,” says Spencer, “these were his pajamas.”

Ryan’s laughter is obvious. “Why were you looking at his pajamas?”

“We’re in the hotel,” Spencer says witheringly.

“Ah. You were _forced_ to see his pajamas, I understand.”

Spencer splutters, “They were obscene. I can’t – He borrowed them from someone named Shane.”

“His roommate,” says Ryan. “Yeah, he’s nice.”

Spencer wonders how Ryan knows that, but of course Brendon’s come out with Ryan and Jon and Spencer a bunch of times. “What kind of roommate lets you borrow pants?” Spencer complains.

“Nice ones, with very secure girlfriends who live across town,” says Ryan, and Spencer can hear him starting to laugh.

“Well, next time I travel he’s not coming. How am I supposed to not notice… that?”

“You wouldn’t be able to find your own head,” Ryan sighs. “You know you’re being hysterical, right? Go deal with contracts and shit, and worry about this when you’re back in the right time zone, and you’ve slept. I’m serious.”

“But—“

“Spence,” says Ryan. “I’m going to make fun of you forever. It’s _Brendon_.”

Spencer can’t tell from Ryan’s tone if he means that it’s ridiculous to find Brendon attractive, or if he means it would be ridiculous not to. “I’m gonna hang up,” says Spencer.

Ryan yawns. “Yeah,” he agrees.

“You suck,” says Spencer, and hangs up for real.

\--

It must be the jet lag, or the lack of sleep, or all the stress of traveling, because normally Spencer can drink for hours and not get this dizzy. But the karaoke lounge is spinning, and the bright lights of Hong Kong below him are fading and blurring together like time-lapse photography.

“One more,” says Mr. Wu, in his British-accented English.

“Sure!” Spencer agrees, lifting his glass sloppily. Gin – vodka? Whiskey? – spills all over his hand.

“Let me refill that for you, Mr. Smith,” says Brendon immediately, taking it out of his hand. He gives back a different glass, but Spencer doesn’t think anything of it until he takes a drink and it’s… Water. He glares at Brendon, but Brendon is carefully looking through his briefcase, and Spencer can’t catch his eye.

“To a long and happy future working together,” says Mr. Wu, and they drink again. Spencer’s having trouble staying on the padded bench seat.

He blinks a little more slowly than usual, and suddenly Brendon is talking to Wu, with that same stupid, earnest face he gets when he’s charming people. Even the hippies at Homes for Humanity like that face. Spencer hates it, because now it makes him think about Brendon answering his hotel room door, rumpled and sincere and exhausted. And how Spencer wanted to walk him backwards to the bed and crawl in with him, and spend the rest of the weekend there.

“…so much,” says Brendon, and then grabs Spencer’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “Thank you.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Spencer manages.

“We’re done for the night. Back to the room for a few hours to sleep, and we fly out at six.” Brendon wrinkles up his nose. It’s adorable. Spencer wonders what it would look like if Brendon still had his glasses on. “You reek like you were _swimming_ in whiskey.”

“You smell nice,” Spencer mumbles, leaning heavily on Brendon’s neck. He thinks it’s a little creepy to sniff his secretary. He can’t help it, though. He’s taller than Brendon, so he’s draped all over him, standing in the elevator, one hand braced against the wall and the other wrapped around Brendon’s neck. Brendon’s warm, and he smells great. Spencer says it again, just to be sure Brendon knows.

Brendon laughs a little bit. “Sure, Spencer,” he says. He almost never calls Spencer by his first name when they’re working with clients. He’s careful about that.

Spencer likes it. “That’s my name,” says Spencer seriously. “You said it.”

“I guess so. I should have cut you off an hour ago,” Brendon complains, pulling Spencer out of the elevator. “Thank god we’re not far.” He drags Spencer down the hall, and Spencer could be more helpful, probably. But he lets his feet drag and leans more heavily on Brendon than he really needs to. One of his hands tries to wander down to Brendon’s ass, but the part of Spencer’s brain that’s still working tells him it’s wrong. He can’t cop a feel from his employee. No matter how awesome that employee’s ass happens to be.

He starts to tell Brendon about his ass, but figures Brendon probably knows. He’d have to, wouldn’t he? Just because Spencer spent a whole year not noticing, like some kind of dumbass – He laughs.

“What?” Brendon asks, twisting around. Spencer’s laughing against his neck, it must be all wet where Spencer’s breathing on it.

“Dumbass,” says Spencer, and laughs again, hiccupping a little.

Brendon looks puzzled, but he smiles. God, he has such a good smile. “Okay,” he says. “If you say so. I think we did pretty well this weekend.”

“You were great,” says Spencer. “You’re… great.” He manages not to specify which part, because he means _all_ of him, really.

Brendon wasn’t drinking, so Spencer doesn’t know why he goes a little red. “You are _so_ wasted,” Brendon complains. He fumbles a key card out of Spencer’s pocket. Spencer is deliberately unhelpful, because that way Brendon’s fingers are in his pocket, brushing against his leg. Spencer hugs Brendon’s neck more tightly and buries his face in Brendon’s neck.

When the door opens, Brendon staggers, and they both almost fall. “Jesus,” Brendon laughs, “you’re a lump.” He lets Spencer collapse on the bed.

Spencer looks at the ceiling. If he’d taken Brendon back to bed this morning, they could have been lying here, looking at this ceiling. He could have had Brendon snuggled up against him, glasses leaving marks against his cheek where they were pressed into the pillow, pajama pants riding so low that Spencer would barely have to pull on them to slip his hand down—

“Uggggh, your _shoes_ ,” Brendon complains, pulling them off. He reaches up and starts unknotting Spencer’s tie. His fingers are slow and a little shaky – he’s exhausted, Spencer knows. He wants to reach up and grab Brendon’s tie, drag him down in to bed, roll on top of him, and keep him there until it’s time to fly home. By the time he realizes this, Brendon’s already finished and thrown a blanket over him.

“You can sleep more on the plane tomorrow,” says Brendon. He sounds tired, and maybe a little sad. “If you wake up, drink some water. Good night.”

Spencer wants to say good night, but he blinks, and by the time he can drag his eyes open again the room is dark and the door is shut.

\--

Brendon knocks on the door when they have 45 minutes to get to the airport. Spencer’s head is killing him. Brendon packs up all of his clothes for him and shoves him downstairs. Brendon has a bottle of water and some pills he’ll smuggle through security, and Spencer closes his eyes in the car and tries to think of nothing until his head stops pounding.

There have been times when Spencer was hung over after a long night of drinking with Ryan and Jon, when Brendon teased him mercilessly, turning up the volume of the radio in his car and banging around the office with deliberate malice. Brendon always explains, with sniffy superiority, that since he was out with them, too, and he’s not hung over, Spencer doesn’t deserve babying.

Spencer always makes a note afterwards to stop bringing Brendon along when they go out, but he never does.

Today, though, Brendon is quiet. He gives the taxi driver hushed directions and sits in the car without moving around too much. He’s messaging on his Palm Pilot, but he has it set to silent. When they get to the airport Brendon has their documents out and they move so quickly through the lines that Spencer wonders if Brendon bribed someone.

He looks at Brendon, but Brendon doesn’t look like he’s been scheming. He looks tired, even tireder than he did the day before, hair in his face and glasses on. He’s wearing the same shirt he wore to fly out, and it’s rumpled and a little sweaty.

Spencer can’t help the way his chest clutches now when he looks at Brendon. He’d take an oath that this is new. Brendon didn’t look like this last week, or last month, or a year ago. He couldn’t have. Spencer would have noticed.

Brendon finds them seats in the VIP lounge, where lots of businessmen from all over the world are having glasses of wine and hushed conversations on their phones in a multitude of languages. Spencer closes his eyes and puts his head back on the cushioned headrest. If anything needs to get done, Brendon will handle it.

When he hears the first call for their flight, he opens his eyes again, and Brendon is watching him. He looks away immediately, eyes dropping to the floor, but he’s smiling, a funny shy little smile that Spencer doesn’t recognize. “What?” says Spencer, voice gravely. “My hair’s all fucked up, right? I’ll fix it before we get back.”

“Your hair’s okay,” says Brendon, and bites his lip. “C’mon, they’re boarding us.” He grabs his carry-on and Spencer’s, and Spencer follows him onto the plane.

\--

It doesn’t occur to Spencer until they’re in the air that Brendon might be smiling at him like that because he said something stupid and obvious when he was drunk. He remembers thinking about Brendon’s ass, but can’t recall if he said anything out loud.

There is no subtle way to ask Brendon if he owes him an apology for accidental sexual harassment. He can’t do it, even if he comes up with one; Brendon passes out as soon as he sits down, and spends the whole thirteen-hour flight home with his face smushed against the window, mouth open, making little sniffling noises.

Last week, Spencer would have poked him awake and made him explain the latest office gossip about Weird Gerard. Or snapped a picture on his phone of Brendon drooling, and blown it up to hang in the office. Or both, probably.

Now touching him feels fraught. Taking his picture feels creepy. Spencer fidgets and tries to concentrate on finishing his paperwork, but he keeps looking at Brendon instead. Did he say something awful? Should he say something now? Is this fluttering in his stomach going to go away when they land and Spencer gets some sleep?

Airplanes are always overly air-conditioned, and Brendon’s shirt is unbuttoned and rolled up at the cuffs. Spencer tells himself firmly that he would have done the same thing before the trip, before he struggles out of his jacket and puts it over Brendon.

He never manages to stop looking.

\--

They land. Brendon is bleary but efficient, getting them through the airport and back to the building where Spencer left his car. Spencer trails along after him, feeling like a zombie. Brendon texts and emails the firm, and then looks wearily at Spencer. “What do you want to do now?” he asks.

Spencer thinks about being in the office with Brendon, as tired as he is. Something stupid would happen. “Go home,” says Spencer, and relief flashes across Brendon’s face. “I’m going home, too. In fact, take a few days. Take a week. You deserve it.”

Brendon looks understandably confused. He’s never had three days in a row off in the whole time he’s worked for Spencer. There has certainly never been a surprise vacation. “A… A week?” he stutters, like he thinks he’s heard wrong.

“Don’t come back until next Monday,” says Spencer firmly. He expects that he’ll break down by Wednesday, but he can live without Brendon for a few days. As soon as he thinks it, his stomach flutters.

“Monday,” says Brendon skeptically.

Spencer points to Brendon’s weird little hybrid car. “Go home,” he orders. “I don’t want to see you again until Monday. Get it?”

“Okay,” says Brendon, holding up his hands. “Have a good week off. I guess.” He gives Spencer one last confused look and gets in the car.

Spencer’s hands are shaking a little bit. He drives home slowly, the way Ryan drives, and crawls into bed. He sleeps for twenty straight hours.

The first thing he thinks when he wakes up is _Brendon_.

Spencer doesn’t know what to do about that, so he drives straight to Ryan’s house and flings himself on Ryan’s couch. He can feel Ryan looking at him, eyebrows up, but Ryan would know he was freaking out even if there hadn’t been a panicked phone call from another continent, so he doesn’t say anything.

After a minute, Ryan sits down in a chair and crosses his legs. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” Ryan asks. Ryan owns a little antiques store, so he makes his own work hours.

“I’m taking time off,” says Spencer. “I sent Brendon home.”

Ryan whistles and nods. “So it’s a full scale nervous breakdown,” he says. “Good to know.”

“Shut up,” says Spencer, without heat. “I don’t know what to do.”

Ryan sighs and looks at the ceiling for a minute. Spencer shifts on the couch and tries to get comfortable. It’s a little like therapy, except he knows Ryan’s just as fucked up as he is. When Ryan was falling for Jon he was a mess for days.

Spencer’s not falling for anyone, it’s just an analogy.

“The problem is Brendon, right?” says Ryan cautiously.

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees.

Ryan shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he says. “Hasn’t it… Hasn’t it _always_ been Brendon?”

Spencer’s not sure how to explain it. “Brendon was just Brendon last week. But now he’s… Now it’s different.”

“Just Brendon,” Ryan echoes. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just… What do you mean by ‘just Brendon?’ Do you mean ‘Just the guy you spend 20 hours a day with?’ Or ‘Just the person who runs and organizes your life?’” He pauses. “Do you maybe mean ‘Just the person you talk about all the time?’”

“He’s my secretary, of course he runs my life.”

“Nnno,” says Ryan slowly. “You’ve had secretaries before. This is definitely different.”

“How am I supposed to work with him in a professional capacity when this is going on?” Spencer snaps.

Ryan shrugs. “How have you been doing it all year? Brendon hasn’t changed.”

“Yes he has! He was just Brendon, and now he’s… I shouldn’t be thinking about sex when I look at my secretary!”

Ryan is clearly trying not to laugh. Spencer needs a new best friend. “Spence,” he says. “You haven’t been on a date in a year.”

“I’m busy,” Spencer grumps.

“When you do go out, it’s with Brendon. To a bar. To a game. To a party. When you go out with Jon and me you bring Brendon.”

“I’m usually entertaining clients! He has to come.”

“You _brought him home for Christmas_ last year.”

Spencer gets a little red. “We were working over the holiday, and he’s got some kind of weird family issues. It was logical.”

“I’m pretty sure your mom thinks he’s your boyfriend. She knitted him a sweater.”

“Well, I’ll just call and disabuse her of that notion, then,” Spencer scowls. This isn’t fair. The whole world is insane.

“What’s _wrong_ , exactly, with Brendon being your boyfriend?”

“He’s my secretary! It’s… He’s _Brendon_!”

Ryan gives Spencer a really sharp look. “Funny,” he says, dryly. “That’s exactly why we all thought it was such a _good_ idea.”

Spencer has no answer to that, so he splutters and kicks one foot against the couch, and glares. “When Brendon gets back from his vacation, I’m making ‘find me a new best friend’ the first thing in his day planner.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Brendon’s on vacation?”

“Well I couldn’t have him wandering around the office, when all I can think about is his ass,” Spencer says witheringly.

Ryan chokes. “His… Oh. You finally noticed that, did you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think a lot of people _start_ with his ass, and then move on from there.”

The door opens and Jon comes in. He’s carrying coffee, god bless him, and he kisses Ryan hello, and waves to Spencer. Jon is by far the best thing that has ever happened to Ryan Ross. He makes Ryan mellow and happy, when his natural tendency is toward high strung and crazy. This is why Spencer has allowed Jon to usurp so much of Ryan’s time.

“What’s up? Hey, Spencer,” says Jon.

Ryan looks at him gravely. “Spencer’s just noticed Brendon’s ass,” he says.

Jon’s face goes curiously blank. “Huh,” is all he says. And then, “I, uh. Need to put down the hot coffee for this conversation.” He wanders into the kitchen and then back. “Tell me more.”

Ryan still has his utterly sincere face on, which means he is amused beyond words. “Apparently,” he says to Jon, stressing the word, “Spencer is worried that he might have a crush of some sort. Due to Brendon’s ass. I think.”

“Shut up, I walked in and he was leaning over a suitcase—“

“It’s pretty fantastic, as asses go,” Jon agrees. He presses his lips together. “But you… You really just noticed?”

“I think he’s slow,” says Ryan mournfully. “If only we’d known back in high school. He could have gotten the help he so clearly needs.”

Spencer throws a couch pillow at him. He’s glad he didn’t mention the other parts to Ryan, the part that’s not just about what Brendon looks like. The part where he wishes he could make Brendon laugh all the time, and the way Brendon’s smile and offer of coffee in the morning makes Spencer want to get out of bed and come to work.

Jon swallows a choked laugh. “Didn’t he go home with you for Christmas?” he asks.

“That was _for work!_ ”

“Don’t you take him _shopping_?”

Spencer starts to yell, and has to stop. He has, in fact, taken Brendon clothes shopping. It’s not the way Jon and Ryan are trying to make it sound, though, swallowing their giggles. Brendon was a broke college graduate, with no decent work clothes, and Spencer needed him to be presentable for business meetings. He took Brendon out and told the woman at the store to find him “whatever,” and then sat around in the dressing room while Brendon bought jackets and ties and shirts.

Spencer realizes, suddenly, that there had been quite a lot of Spencer futzing with Brendon’s ties, and straightening his collar. He recalls, with terrifying clarity, how the saleswoman had cooed at Brendon, all dressed up, and agreed with Spencer that pink was a great color for him, how it brought out his eyes.

Spencer can’t remember having much of an opinion on Brendon’s pants. He can’t believe, in retrospect, that he missed how… How… How _boyfriendy_ that afternoon was.

Why hadn’t Brendon said anything?

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Spencer asks grumpily.

“When?” Ryan asks. “When you were dressing him up? Or when your mom called me and asked if she needed to set up the guest room down the hall for him, or if he was just going to stay in your room?”

Spencer must look honestly bewildered, because Jon and Ryan both burst into laughter. It’s loud, and obnoxious, and Spencer takes back every nice thing he’s ever said about Jon Walker.

“We’re just glad you finally joined the party,” says Ryan, and then he laughs again, and he and Jon go into the kitchen.

Spencer sulks for a good five minutes, and then takes his phone out of his pocket. He calls home. “Sweetheart!” says his mom. “How are you?”

“Brendon’s my secretary, not my boyfriend,” Spencer says grumpily.

“Oh, have you two had a fight?” his mom asks, sounding sympathetic.

Spencer throws the phone across the room, and hides his face under a pillow.

\--

  
He spends three days sulking at Ryan’s house, wishing Jon would stop giving him sympathetic looks. Brendon texts him once, _njoyin ur vay k?_ and Spencer texts back a sharp, _y, so don’t text me_. Brendon doesn’t. Spencer’s a little disappointed.

He worries that if he goes home he’ll spend too much time thinking about Brendon, and what to do. But he spends every minute Jon and Ryan aren’t around doing the same thing, so it’s probably pointless.

The problem is that there’s nothing to be done; Spencer can’t function as a professional without Brendon. But he’s not sure he can behave like a professional around Brendon.

Spencer’s never been afraid of confrontation, not when it actually matters. Nothing rattles him that badly. So on the fourth day he gets up before Ryan – some days Ryan doesn’t open the antique store until two – and drives to Brendon’s house.

Spencer’s never been to Brendon’s house, but he knows where it is. It turns out to be a rickety townhouse with a porch in front, and a long driveway, and Spencer feels a little absurd knocking on the door.

It’s answered by someone who isn’t Brendon. He’s tall and skinny, with crazy dark hair that sticks up everywhere, and no shirt. Spencer’s a little surprised that his first response to that is overwhelming, choking anger, and then he remembers Brendon mentioning a roommate.

“Shane?” Spencer asks, as politely as he can manage.

“Yeah,” says Shane. “Uh. Spencer, right?”

Spencer isn’t sure he wants to know how Shane knows that. “Is Brendon around?”

“Yeah, come on in, I’ll go get him.” Shane wanders into the house and Spencer follows him. His heart is beating a little faster, now; he really could have thought out what he was going to say before he decided to drive over.

Shane goes upstairs, and after a minute comes down again with Brendon in tow. Brendon looks rested, although Spencer can’t help but wish he was wearing a bigger t-shirt or jeans that were a little less painted on.

“You look shitty,” says Brendon. “What kind of vacation are you taking?”

“It hasn’t been very relaxing,” Spencer concedes.

Brendon rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna make some coffee. You want some?”

One of the things Spencer likes best about Brendon is the way he makes coffee. Spencer reminds himself firmly that there are lots of things he _dis_ likes about Brendon, too. He is loud in the morning, he makes fun of Spencer’s beard, he dresses like a fourteen year old girl. Spencer can concentrate on those until the others go away.

He sits at a stool in the kitchen, and Shane, looking puzzled, sits down on the couch with the newspaper. It’s the perfect distance for not-too-subtle eavesdropping. Brendon hands them both coffee and then leans his elbow on the counter, chin on his hand. “So?” he says. “What’s up with the impromptu vacation? Did something happen?”

Spencer almost chokes on coffee. He refuses to stutter like an embarrassed child. “Not with work,” he says.

“Huh,” says Brendon, frowning. That’s another thing Spencer can dislike. The way Brendon’s face shows everything he’s thinking.

Spencer takes a deliberate sip of coffee and then says, in a stuffy voice, “I got drunk in that meeting.”

“With Mr. Wu? You sure did,” Brendon agrees, laughing a little. “I had to carry you back to the hotel room.”

Spencer is glad about the beard, because it makes turning red less of a problem. “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior,” he says stiffly.

Brendon looks puzzled. “What, getting drunk? That’s kind of the custom, I was expecting it.”

Spencer shakes his head. “No,” he says, “It was inappropriate, and I want to apologize if I said or did anything that made you… Uncomfortable.”

Brendon’s eyes go wide. He looks at Shane, who is looking over his shoulder at them, and immediately pretends to go back to the newspaper. “You didn’t,” says Brendon slowly, but he’d say that anyway. He’s very polite.

“I was jet lagged and exhausted and drunk, and I shouldn’t have…” Spencer doesn’t want to just say _talked about your ass_ in case he didn’t, but he doesn’t want to not say it, in case he did. “I shouldn’t have barged into your hotel room when you were in your pajamas,” he says instead. It sounds lame.

“Your pajamas, actually, Shane,” says Brendon cheerfully.

Shane makes a face. “He sleeps naked. Or he used to. That’s a hell of a thing to wake up to, wandering the apartment. I told him it was pretty inappropriate for a business trip.”

Spencer had been sure his brain was as derailed as it could have been, but it turns out he was wrong. Everything goes white for a second, and then when he feels himself back in the room Shane and Brendon are bickering happily about whether pajamas can be part of your work uniform or not. “You,” Spencer starts, and they both stop. “I shouldn’t have barged in, and I shouldn’t have gotten that drunk, and if I said anything about your… About… I’m sorry.”

“About my what?” Brendon frowns. “Did I screw something up?”

“About…” Spencer starts, but he can’t finish the sentence because he’s sure this falls under HR’s definition of harassment. He gestures vaguely, and Brendon looks even more confused. “I think I remember making a joke about your ass,” says Spencer finally, painfully.

Brendon’s face goes shocked, and Shane hides a guffaw very badly behind the newspaper. “You didn’t,” Brendon says, in a choked voice. “You called me a dumbass, but—“

Spencer remembers that. “No,” he says quickly, “I meant me, not you. For getting so drunk.”

“It was fine—“ Brendon assures him.

“It wasn’t,” says Spencer firmly. “I just wanted to let you know that it won’t happen again. I value our professional working relationship too much. I really am sorry.”

He stares at Brendon and wills him to understand and accept the apology, but Brendon looks baffled and a little horrified. “You really didn’t say anything about my… Nothing you said or did bothered me, honestly,” Brendon says. “I guess I accept your apology if it means that much to you, but—“

“It does.”

“Okay. Sure, then.”

Shane puts down the paper. “I want to hear what you said about Brendon’s ass,” he interrupts.

“Shut up,” Brendon orders, throwing a piece of paper at Shane’s head.

Spencer feels like this is a fair request. “Just that… I noticed it. And I didn’t mean to. But then when I was drunk it was hard not to notice –“ Shane giggles. “If I’m making you uncomfortable you can switch partners, but I hope you don’t.”

Brendon looks… Spencer has trouble figuring out how Brendon looks, actually, which is a rare occurrence. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is a little open – his mouth might be another problem, Spencer realizes ruefully– but the look on his face isn’t harassed or upset. It’s surprised and almost… If Spencer didn’t know better, he’d think it fell somewhere between ‘delighted’ and ‘hopeful.’ “Don’t worry about it,” says Brendon.

“Okay,” says Spencer, because he’s apologized as much as he can. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow?”

“What happened to ‘don’t come back before Monday?’” Brendon asks, rolling his eyes.

“There’s tons of work to be done, don’t be ridiculous,” says Spencer, and stands up. “Nice to meet you, Shane.”

“Oh my god, the pleasure was all mine,” says Shane, badly hiding another laugh.

Spencer ignores him. Everything is all fixed now, and they can go back to work. Thank god.  


\---

  


Nothing is fixed at all.

Brendon is at work the next morning when Spencer arrives, holding coffee and beaming at him. Spencer’s heart stutters. Brendon is wearing black jeans so tight Spencer’s almost sure he can’t sit down in them, and when he leans over to get files Spencer can see the red waistband of his underwear peeking up under them.

There is no way for Spencer to point out the problem without admitting that he was looking at Brendon’s ass.

He has a meeting with Homes for Humanity about the designs for the low-income housing they want to build. Spencer hates being the lead on this project. He wants to build affordable housing, but there’s nothing challenging or sexy about the project except the challenge of keeping it under budget. Luckily Brendon loves it, and his energy is infectious. Spencer tries not to notice how Brendon’s enthusiasm makes Spencer enthusiastic, too. He works very hard at not thinking about why he likes seeing Brendon so happy.

Homes doesn’t have a set project manager, so a different person comes to every meeting. It makes Spencer crazy, explaining everything again, but when he walks out Brendon is already walking Greta through what they got done last time with Ray. She looks like a hippy, just like all the folks at the non-profit do.

“Let’s talk budget,” says Spencer grimly. Greta flutters helplessly a little bit and nods. Brendon appears a second later with coffee for both of them.

Brendon’s hand brushes Spencer’s as he takes the coffee. Spencer thinks about that all morning when he ought to be negotiating Greta out of the cost of recycled filler materials for insulation.

Two days later they work late at the office, and Brendon keeps himself awake by singing the entire score to Jesus Christ, Superstar. Seriously, he sings the Jesus part and the Judas part, all by himself. Spencer scowls and snaps at him to knock it off, but it’s not because of the headache he claims. It’s because Brendon’s voice, so cheerful and boisterous, does funny things to Spencer’s concentration. When Spencer comes out to get dinner Brendon is bent over the desk, trying to reach an outlet behind it, and Spencer has to turn around and go back into his office for a couple of minutes, until his pulse stops racing.

On Friday Spencer has to talk to Weird Gerard in advertising, to talk about the pamphlet that’s going out to advertise the Hong Kong city planning deal. Gerard never leaves his office – his cave, Brendon calls it, and giggles – and Spencer hates going in there.

“Your secretary was singing this morning,” says Gerard, hunched over his drawing table.

Spencer can’t tell if Gerard is mad or not. “Yeah, he does that,” he says. He’s surprised that he’s ready to fight with Gerard if he complains.

“It was loud. It was okay, though,” says Gerard, and Spencer decides not to hit him.

Gerard can never find anything in his office; he needs a Brendon, or at least someone to organize him. He’s even worse than Spencer, though; Gerard’s never kept an assistant for longer than an hour before they quit. Spencer waits uncomfortably in the doorway while Gerard roots through pile after pile of papers, looking for his sketch. It takes so long that Brendon comes looking for him.

“You’re missing a meeting, come on,” says Brendon.

Spencer frowns. “There’s no meeting this morning.”

Brendon rolls his eyes and checks Spencer lightly with his hip. Spencer feels off balance in more ways than one. “I emailed you the schedule change,” he says. “Hey, Gerard.” He plucks at Spencer’s sleeve and ducks out again.

Spencer thinks Gerard gives him a _look_ , but it’s hard to tell.

It’s possible that Spencer just never noticed before, but he’s willing to swear Brendon’s shirts are getting tighter. Spencer tries not to look. Brendon’s ties are definitely getting sloppier. Spencer’s being driven mad by the crooked knot and the tail sticking out, and he can’t stop himself from grabbing Brendon’s arm as he zips by. Brendon freezes immediately, but Spencer can feel him humming with energy.

“Just let me,” says Spencer, determinedly not looking at Brendon’s face. He’s done this dozens of times. Brendon has always been a mess.

He hopes Brendon doesn’t notice that this time his hands are shaking a little bit every time they brush Brendon’s throat. He’s glad Brendon can’t feel the way his pulse jumps, and his mouth goes dry. Brendon’s so close. Spencer could keep the tie in one hand and just tug, and Brendon’s mouth would be—

But when he glances up, Brendon’s looking at the floor, eyes hidden behind his dark eyelashes, and his face open. Spencer can’t do this. Brendon is a friend and an employee.

“Thanks,” says Brendon a little hoarsely, looking up.

Spencer drops his hands. “Learn to dress yourself,” he says, and it doesn’t sound as mean as it should.

Brendon looks up and smiles sunnily at him. “But you do it better,” he says, with what might be a flirty tilt to his head. Spencer can’t be sure.

That night Spencer moans on the phone to Ryan, “Everything is wrong.”

“Everything what?” Ryan asks patiently.

“He keeps bumping into me. I keep having to touch him to get things. His tie is never on right – Why are you laughing?”

“No reason,” says Ryan. “I have to go. I hope you stop being so dumb soon.”

“What? Ryan?”

It gets worse every day, until the day that they’re passing each other around Spencer’s desk, where there’s no room. Brendon turns sideways to wiggle by, and just for a second he’s pressed right up against Spencer, his back against Spencer’s front, one hand braced on the wall. It takes every ounce of self-control Spencer’s ever possessed to keep his hands off Brendon’s hips, to keep his mouth off Brendon’s neck. He swears under his breath and grabs his coat. “I’m going home,” he snaps. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Brendon looks startled, but he shrugs. “Okay, I’ll finish these up. You know we might need them before midnight, Hong Kong time, right?”

Spencer grunts and storms out.

Halfway through the parking lot he realizes he can’t go home; he’ll lie around on the couch and think about almost-touching Brendon. But he can’t touch Brendon. No one’s ever understood the business so well. No one’s ever understood Spencer so well. If he gropes Brendon and Brendon quits, Spencer will… Well, there’s nothing he _can_ do.

He turns the car around and goes to a bar. A shitty sports bar, where he and Brendon have never come, where they have never celebrated a contract with cheap beer on tap, and where Brendon has never gotten drunk and sat half in Spencer’s lap.

What he needs, Spencer realizes, isn’t just to get drunk. It’s to get drunk and distract himself. Ryan said he hadn’t been on a date in a year, not since Brendon showed up. It’s time to fix that.

Spencer gets a beer to brace himself, and then finds the tallest guy there. Someone who’s quiet, someone who doesn’t smile too much, someone whose jeans are loose. Spencer learns and then immediately forgets that his name is Kenneth, and he buys them both a round of shots, and then another. Spencer manages to go whole minutes at a time without thinking about Brendon, back at the office, looking through papers and organizing Spencer’s life. After the fourth round Kenneth asks politely if Spencer’s hand in his jeans means he’d like to get out of there, and Spencer says yes.

They get a cab back to Kenneth’s shitty apartment. Spencer can’t claim it isn’t fun; sex is always fun, even sloppy, drunk sex with someone who’s too tall and too quiet. They fumble enough to get their pants off, and there are sloppy hand jobs and a drunken attempt at a blowjob that doesn’t work, because Spencer’s drunk and he can’t stop drooling. Kenneth’s even drunker.

The floor is tilting back and forth. Kenneth has some beers in the fridge, and Spencer props himself up against the wall and opens one. He has to keep drinking, because otherwise he’ll think about… Something. Someone?

Kenneth is talking on a cell phone that looks oddly familiar. Spencer blinks, and the room dips and twirls. Kenneth says, “…Yeah, 401 Pike. Thanks. Shit, I don’t know where his car is.” And then he closes his phone and hands it to Spencer. Strange. He crouches in front of Spencer and smiles drunkenly. “Your phone rang. Some kind of work emergency?”

“Oh,” says Spencer. Brendon handles those. He needs Brendon. He hopes Brendon’s not drunk.

Kenneth shrugs and falls on the couch. In a second he snoring, shirtless, pants hanging off one leg. Spencer struggles to get his own dress slacks back on, but he can’t do it one-handed, and he’s too tipsy to put the beer down without spilling it. It won’t balance on the rug.

Someone knocks on the door. And then again. Spencer slaps at Kenneth’s leg, but he’s passed out. Luckily, the door opens.

“Spencer?” says Brendon, and then stops dead in the doorway.

Spencer frowns. The whole night was about getting away from Brendon. “You shouldn’t be here,” he slurs.

“I… Yeah. Clearly,” says Brendon, in a weird, bitten-off voice Spencer’s never heard before. “Is your car here?”

“At the bar,” says Spencer, letting his eyes sink shut.

There’s a pause. A long pause. Spencer wonders if Brendon’s left. But when he forces his eyes open again, Brendon’s still standing there, lips pressed tightly together. His face is blank. “You need to be in a tele-conference meeting with Mr. Wu at eight,” says Brendon finally, in the same strained, choked voice “So you need to come back to the office and get those papers signed. Now. Can you stand up?”

Spencer braces one hand against the wall and tries, but he’s all tangled up in his trousers and his beer. Brendon swears – Spencer’s never really heard him swear like that before – and stomps over, grabs Spencer’s pants and hauls them up. He buttons them with his long, clever fingers and takes the beer, and then snaps, “Come on. I’ll drive you.” He doesn’t offer to help Spencer walk. He doesn’t let Spencer drape himself across his shoulders.

Spencer staggers through the door and out into Kenneth’s driveway, where Brendon’s weird little eco-friendly car is sitting. He feels bereft, but can’t think why. “You’re mad,” he says, sounding a little confused.

“No,” says Brendon tiredly. “I’m not mad. Get in.” He holds the car door open, and Spencer gets in. He puts his forehead against the cool glass. Brendon doesn’t look at him once on the drive back to work.

\--

Spencer goes home to take a nap and sleep off the beer. Then he gets up and calls Ryan and moans about how awful his night was. Ryan is less than sympathetic. Spencer gets back to work a little after one. He plans to be at work until well after midnight that night, making up for it.

He expects Brendon to be there, to offer him a coffee and make fun of him for going out and getting drunk when he ought to be working.

Brendon comes in an hour after Spencer does. He looks tired and upset, and he doesn’t say anything to Spencer, just goes to his desk and pulls out a file of papers. Spencer leaves the office door open, because he knows when he hears humming from the outer office that means it’s safe to go talk to Brendon again.

Brendon does his work quietly until he’s all caught up from that morning, and then he grabs his jacket and goes home. He doesn’t say a word to Spencer.

Spencer knows he owes Brendon an apology. His behavior was unprofessional. And it hasn’t even helped; he’s still thinking mostly about Brendon, and what it would be like to go to a bar with Brendon when they weren’t there for work. When he could buy Brendon a drink and encourage him to sing along with the jukebox and drive him home and then go inside with him. It hasn’t helped at all.

He tries to apologize the next morning. He gets there early, makes coffee for Brendon even though he knows Brendon makes it better. Brendon looks awful, and the circles under his eyes are monumental.

“I was a jerk,” says Spencer quickly. “I shouldn’t have gotten drunk like that. I’m sorry.”

Brendon looks at his sneakers. “Spencer,” he says after a minute. “I… I can’t do this.”

“And you shouldn’t have to,” Spencer agrees. “Honestly, it’ll never happen again.”

“No. I mean. I…” Brendon shrugs his weird hemp messenger bag around his shoulder and takes out an envelope. He looks up, and his face is blank, except where he’s squinting a little, like he’s trying not to frown. “My two weeks’ notice,” he says.

Spencer’s world bottoms out.

“What?” Spencer says. “I won’t accept it.” Panic rises, choking him. He can’t breathe.

Brendon just shrugs. “I’ve sent a copy to the partners, too. I’m going to find someone to replace me before I go, don’t worry.”

That is the least of Spencer’s worries. “Brendon, I’m _sorry_ ,” he says again, grabbing Brendon’s arm unthinkingly.

Brendon takes a step back and shakes his head. He’s looking at the floor again. “Yeah,” he says. “Me, too. I have to go get those copies of the new blueprints for Homes.” He drops his bag and flees.

Spencer is a functioning grownup, so he makes it all the way back to his desk in his office before he lets his knees give out and his brain go blank.

Brendon’s leaving.

For a minute, Spencer thinks that he slipped and Brendon’s going because he can’t stand the way Spencer’s been looking at him lately. If Brendon knew about Spencer’s crush of course he’d run away.

Spencer does what he always does when he’s panicking. He calls Ryan.

Ryan’s at the antique store. “God, what?” he says. “Did Brendon show up to work naked or something?”

“He quit,” Spencer chokes.

Ryan’s quiet.

“He’s _leaving_ , Ryan, I screwed everything up somehow.”

Ryan sighs. “I bet it’s not the way you think,” he says after a minute.

“I grabbed him, Ryan, he looked horrified. Holy shit, what am I going to do? I don’t even know where my day planner is, let alone—“

“Spence,” Ryan interrupts. “Let’s not pretend this is about you losing your secretary, okay?”

Spencer swallows hard. “I hated all the other ones,” he says.

“You don’t love Brendon because he keeps your files alphabetized with shiny stickers.”

“I… _Love._ I don’t…”

“You do. You’ve been a real jackass about it. You’re the one who told me he was flirting with you.”

It feels like someone is sitting on Spencer’s chest. He can’t breathe. “I never said that.”

“Tighter jeans, smaller shirts, always up in your space. Brendon’s not an idiot. He didn’t accidentally shrink all his clothes in the laundry.” Ryan waits. “You went to his house and told him you finally noticed him, and he… He wanted you to keep noticing. And then you went and slept with some random guy and he had to see it. Of course he’s upset.”

Spencer shakes his head, even though Ryan can’t see it.

“He’s had a crush on you for a while,” Ryan says. “That wasn’t nice.”

“I didn’t know,” Spencer argues, but thinks he probably did. He remembers how Brendon went still and quiet when Spencer touched him. He ought to have known.

“Tell him not to quit. Tell him you love him.”

“He’s my secretary,” Spencer chokes. “That’s harassment. I could get fired.”

“Or Brendon could _leave_ ,” says Ryan sharply.

“I… I can’t.”

Ryan sighs impatiently. “You’d better,” he says.

Spencer hangs up. He has two weeks before Brendon leaves. He can work up the nerve to talk to Brendon in two weeks. No problem.

\--

It rains all the next day, and Brendon gets to work soaking wet. The grey skies outside make Spencer’s office look like it’s in a basement, instead of on the fourteenth floor. Brendon shakes out his wet hair and gets water all over Spencer’s desk.

Spencer doesn’t say anything.

Brendon spends the day trying to bring up hiring a replacement, but Spencer cuts him off or changes the subject every time. “I really think you need someone with a lot of energy,” Brendon starts, and Spencer replies, “I can’t find the papers Ray brought over.” Then he glares until Brendon gives up and goes to find the folder.

It’s raining again a week later, when Brendon comes in with someone else following him. “This is Frank,” says Brendon determinedly. “He’s an amazing office manager.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything, just goes into his office and closes the door.

It’s something he loves about Brendon, how Brendon is never discouraged by setbacks, he only thinks of new plans of attack. This time Spencer wishes he wouldn’t. Frank follows Spencer around, laughing the wrong way and looking the wrong way and generally being _not Brendon_ all over the office. He eats the pencils and has a scorpion tattooed on his neck. Spencer will never be able to take him to a weekend conference in Hong Kong.

By the time Brendon’s last day rolls around Frank knows where everything in the office is, and he does a decent job of anticipating what Spencer wants before he asks. He’s also – weirdly – struck up a friendship with Weird Gerard in advertising. Even Brendon finds it odd.

Ryan has called Spencer every single day. Usually he just says, “Did you tell him yet?” Spencer hangs up, because he hasn’t. He doesn’t know how.

At six o’clock on Friday it’s finally sunny and clearing up a little outside. Brendon knocks hesitantly on Spencer’s door. “Hey,” he says. “I’m … going.”

Spencer feels like he’s going to throw up. Brendon won’t be back on Saturday. He won’t be back on Monday. They aren’t friends, really; Spencer can’t call him up and ask him out for a beer this weekend. He ought to be professional and erase Brendon’s name from his phone. Brendon’s his secretary. He won’t be in another five minutes.

“It’s been a pleasure,” says Spencer stiffly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He can hear Ryan yelling at him, but everything gets caught up in his throat, and what comes out is, “Do you have a job lined up? If you need a recommendation—“

“No, I found something,” says Brendon, with a little half-smile. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” says Spencer. “Good. I’m glad.”

Brendon stands in the doorway and Spencer sits behind his desk and neither one of them moves. It’s the most awkward Spencer has ever felt in his entire life.

“Okay. Well. Thanks,” says Brendon.

Spencer tries to smile. “Sure,” he says. “Good luck with the new job.”

Brendon nods, and then he leaves.

\--

Spencer comes in on Saturday and doesn’t get a damn thing done.

Frank is there. Frank is fine. Whenever he speaks Spencer says, “Yeah,” or “No,” and then goes back to staring at the wall. Frank eventually gives up and goes to hide in Weird Gerard’s office.

Spencer didn’t sleep last night.

He wishes he’d said goodbye to Brendon better.

He wishes he’d figured out how to say all the things Ryan wanted him to say.

He goes home Saturday feeling like a zombie. Someone has taken all his energy and replaced it with lead. Sunday he can’t even get out of bed to go into work and do nothing. He stares at the ceiling. Maybe Brendon was lying about the new job, and he’ll have to come back.

Spencer doesn’t really believe that’s true.

Monday morning Jon comes by. Spencer’s lying on the couch. He called and told Frank he was sick, although Spencer hasn’t been sick in years. It felt a little like this, actually. He’s numb all over and his stomach hurts.

“What the hell,” says Jon, not very sympathetically. “Have you eaten anything?”

Spencer shrugs. Brendon had his groceries delivered for him. He figures Frank will too, eventually.

“Up,” says Jon, grabbing his arm. “Ryan wants to talk to you. In person. So he can hit you.”

Spencer lets Jon drag him out to the car. He hasn’t showered in three days, and Jon makes a face, but he doesn’t say anything. Ryan wrinkles up his nose when Spencer walks in. Ryan can be kind of a fussy old lady.

“Sleep, shower, and then you are going talk to Brendon,” Ryan orders.

“He’s gone,” says Spencer blankly.

“You know where he lives.”

“He quit.”

“You can still _talk_ to him.”

They glare at each other, and then Ryan walks over and smacks Spencer on the arm.

“Ow.”

“You are so fucking stupid!” Ryan rails. “I am embarrassed to know you. How could you let him leave and not say anything?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Spencer says quietly.

Ryan still looks pissed, but there’s a lot of sympathy there, too. “All you had to do was tell him the truth,” he says. “Now go get some sleep and figure out what that is.”

Spencer goes to the guest room – it’s always his room when he’s staying with Ryan – and unloads his pockets and climbs in to bed. He hasn’t been able to sleep since Friday, and he doesn’t expect to now, either, but the familiarity and the quiet voices talking down the hallway lull him into a few hours of rest, at least. It’s raining again.

He crawls out of bed and takes a shower, and thinks about eating dinner, but Jon is looking at him with sympathetic eyes, and Ryan starts making noises about driving over to Brendon’s house now, in the middle of the evening. Spencer can’t do it. He goes back to bed and even sleeps for a little while.

Spencer gets up in the morning and Ryan’s already up, which is so unusual as to be suspicious. Ryan looks at him.

Spencer’s a total, abject, horrible failure as a human being. He knows this. “I don’t know how,” he says to Ryan.

Ryan asks quietly, “Did you even consider that Brendon might be feeling like this, too?”

Spencer grabs his car keys.

\--

Spencer’s stomach feels like it’s filled with lava, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, except his car stops in front of Brendon’s house, and he turns the engine off. He puts the keys in his pocket and realizes his hands are shaking. Rain falls hard against the windshield, pooling and running down the glass in rivers.

The last three days have been the three worst days of his life.

Spencer walks up Brendon and Shane’s driveway. He didn’t bring an umbrella. He pulls his jacket up over his head, but he’s soaked almost immediately. He barely feels it. He thinks Brendon should be home. Unless his new job has started already.

He stands on the steps and shivers in the rain. He should have put on clean clothes. He probably looks like a crazy person. He wants to turn around and go home. He reaches out and rings the bell instead.

Part of him is hoping that Brendon’s not home. His heart is trying to leap out of his chest.

The door opens.

Brendon looks pretty awful, too.

There are bags under his eyes, and he’s wearing the glasses again. And pajama pants again, and a t-shirt that’s pretty fucking small, too, and Spencer… Spencer’s mouth goes dry and he doesn’t know what to say.

“I don’t know where the Saporta files are,” Spencer blurts. He wipes dripping hair out of his eyes.

Brendon looked confused when he opened the door, and now he looks annoyed. Disappointed? But Spencer might be imagining that. “You’re getting wet. Ask Frank,” Brendon says.

That won’t help, though. That won’t fix it. “He doesn’t know,” Spencer lies.

Brendon sighs and leans against the doorjamb. He’s barefoot. God, he’s sort of beautiful. “He can find them,” Brendon says, and his patience sounds a little strained.

“He won’t find them _right_!” Spencer says desperately. He’s usually such a good talker, but he just can’t do this. He thinks it’s lucky that it’s raining because maybe Brendon can’t see the desperation all over his face.

Brendon’s face goes dark. Spencer’s never seen him really, genuinely mad before. “Jesus Christ! I have a new job now, okay? Anyone can find your stupid files!” Brendon yells. He honestly yells, banging his hand against the door for emphasis.

“But they won’t… Frank won’t do it _right_ ,” Spencer stutters. “I need _you_ to do it. It has to be you.”

Brendon’s face twists up in annoyance. Spencer’s stomach is trying to escape through his feet. He wants to make Brendon stop looking like this, upset and heartbroken and vulnerable, more than anything else in the whole world. “Why?” Brendon asks bitterly.

“Because I love you,” says Spencer. Rain pounds on the porch around him.

He hadn’t considered what he was going to say. He hadn’t expected to say _that_. And there it is, between them, waiting.

Brendon’s face goes blank. His eyes, behind the glasses, are huge. The longest minute of Spencer’s life ticks by, every painful second making his skin burn and his throat hurt.

Brendon drops his hand from the doorframe. “That’s a stupid reason for me to find your files,” he says. His voice is shaking, like he’s trying not to cry.

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees. “But it’s a great reason for you to be my boyfriend. If you… Don’t you think?” He smiles hopefully.

Brendon smiles back. It feels like the sun coming out, despite all the rain. Spencer hasn’t seen Brendon’s real smile in days, in weeks, maybe. “You’re so stupid,” says Brendon.

It sounds like _I love you, too._

Spencer has been fighting to keep his hands off Brendon for weeks, and suddenly he doesn’t have to. He reaches out, hesitantly, because Brendon hasn’t actually said anything yet, he’s just standing there, smiling. Spencer puts his clammy hand on Brendon’s, and Brendon turns his so their fingers lock together. They both try to move forward at the same time and bump in to each other. Brendon laughs, stepping out into the rain, and his glasses are immediately useless. Spencer kisses him, using his free hand to tilt Brendon’s chin up. He tastes like rain and coffee. Brendon’s arm goes around Spencer, pulls him in closer, as they stumble and sway.

Spencer’s trying to keep the kiss sweet and closed, in case Brendon freaks out, but Brendon has other ideas. He opens his mouth and bites at Spencer’s lip until Spencer does the same, and then their teeth are clashing together, Brendon’s tongue boldly in Spencer’s mouth, and Spencer’s jaw starts to ache a little from trying to open up further. Brendon hasn’t shaved, and he’s rubbing Spencer’s chin and neck a little raw. His hand clenches in the back of Spencer’s shirt, and Spencer has never, ever felt like this before. Their wet shirts are sticking together. Brendon’s t-shirt is see-through, and he’s shivering. Spencer takes his glasses off, since they aren’t doing any good any way, and shoves them in his pocket. Then he kisses Brendon again, tasting Brendon underneath all the rain.

“Whoooooo!” says someone behind them.

Brendon pulls away, but not far; Spencer won’t let him. “Shut up, Shane,” says Brendon, and his face is red, but Spencer thinks it’s only half embarrassment. It’s half from kissing Spencer. Spencer made him glow like that. His fingers tighten around Brendon’s.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to go to lunch,” says Shane cheerfully. “But I think I’m just gonna go. Hey, you know what? I’m gonna spend the night at my girlfriend’s place tonight.”

“Yes, please, go away,” says Brendon, but he’s grinning up at Spencer, rain dripping off his hair and down his face, and Spencer feels like he might burst with joy.

“Be good, kids,” says Shane, and Spencer hears a car door slam. He doesn’t know how he missed hearing a car pull up in the first place. It must have been muffled by the rain. He must have been distracted by a really good kiss.

Spencer says, “You know, I can’t go around kissing my secretary.”

Brendon bounces a little. Spencer loves every fucking thing about him. “Luckily for us,” says Brendon, “I believe I quit.” And then he grabs Spencer’s tie and walks backwards into the apartment, grinning and dragging Spencer with him.

“What are you going to be doing?” Spencer asks. He’s torn between wanting to steal Brendon back and being grateful that he doesn’t have to worry about HR. He pulls the door shut behind him.

Brendon’s eyes light up. He stops walking backwards long enough to pull at Spencer’s wet shirt. “Guess,” he says. He’s wet and shivering and having trouble with the buttons on Spencer’s shirt. Spencer bats his hands away and does it himself. Brendon laughs and undoes his tie, instead.

“You’re going to be singing on Broadway,” Spencer says, and shrugs his shirt off. He feels clammy and sticky and wet, and he thinks it’s lucky Brendon’s not wearing his skintight jeans, because they’d never be able to pull those off, damp.

Brendon laughs, bright and delighted. “Mmm, no,” he says. Spencer kisses him again. He loves the way it feels kissing Brendon while he’s laughing. Then he pulls away and grabs the soaked hem of Brendon’s t-shirt, dragging it up and over his head.

It’s wet and tight and it tangles around Brendon’s arms. Spencer swears and pulls at it, which only succeeds in making it worse. Brendon’s laughing, trying to help, but he’s pressed up against Spencer, and he’s wiggling, and _oh, hell_.

Spencer can’t believe he’s got Brendon right there, half-naked and smiling up at him. He walks Brendon back a couple of feet until he’s pressed against the wall, and holds his t-shirt tangled hands up over his head so he can kiss him properly. Brendon’s shivering cold from all the rain. Spencer’s determined to warm him up.

Brendon groans, tilting his head back, and moves his legs so that one thigh is between Spencer’s, hips tilting up and rubbing against Spencer. It makes sparks dance behind Spencer’s eyes, and his breath come in short pants. “So?” Spencer asks, mouthing the words against Brendon’s cheek. Brendon shivers again, eyes fluttering closed. “What’s the job?”

Brendon laughs. “I’m – I’m working for – Fuck, Spencer,” he says, and his hips jerk up against Spencer’s, back aching. “Homes for Humanity.”

Spencer stops licking Brendon’s neck for a second. “What?” he says blankly. “Those hippies?”

“I like those hippies,” says Brendon. “I bet I can figure out how to use their funding to get them everything they want. Ray thinks I’m gonna be an amazing project manager.”

“They stole you!” Spencer says, and considers being really, really mad.

Brendon’s trying not to laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Right out from under your nose.”

Spencer can’t figure out why he thinks it’s so funny, and then he realizes. “They needed someone to be a liason to our office,” he says. “You’re…”

“Yeah,” says Brendon brightly. “I’m gonna negotiate the _hell_ out of you.” He tugs his hands free and lets the dripping t-shirt fall on the floor.

“We’re going to be working with them on this housing grant for at least a year,” Spencer says incredulously. “Were you just going to show up on Friday and not say anything?”

Brendon hesitates and looks at the floor for a second. “I was gonna ask Ray to do it until you weren’t mad anymore.”

Spencer was never mad. He’ll have to make sure Brendon knows that. “I shouldn’t have let you go,” says Spencer, a little regretfully.

Brendon looks up. “But then,” he says, dropping his voice, “We couldn’t do _this_.” He reaches for the button on Spencer’s pants, but he doesn’t look away from Spencer’s eyes. He’s biting his lower lip in concentration, and tilts his head back a little, chin up, and Spencer wants –

Spencer wants.

Everything.

Brendon’s pajama pants are wet and too big for him; it’s the easiest thing in the world to loosen the tie and shove them down. Brendon has Spencer’s pants undone, and suddenly there’s all this new skin to press together and enjoy. They’re still damp from the rain, but it’s not enough to get their skin slick where they’re pressed together, Brendon humming a little and pressing up on his toes, trying to get more friction and a better angle. His hands are cold and in the way, Spencer thinks, so he catches Brendon’s hands with one of his, and licks the palm of the other. It’s a little odd, the angle is awkward, but the friction’s amazing. Brendon shudders and tugs his hands free, coming up around Spencer’s neck, grabbing his hair, dragging him down into a kiss.

Spencer rolls his hips and braces himself against the wall with one hand, and moves the other faster while he bites Brendon’s lower lip, just like he’s wanted to for weeks now. Brendon’s gorgeous like this, skin flushed and mouth a little open, and he’s not shivering from cold anymore. Spencer feels like he’s on fire everywhere they’re pressed together. His toes are curling in the carpet and he can’t stop grunting – it’s not very sexy, he thinks, he’ll have to try again when he’s less desperate, but right now there’s nothing but touching and _wanting_.

Brendon gasps, arching up on his tiptoes, biting too hard against Spencer’s mouth, fingers yanking in Spencer’s hair. He comes all over Spencer’s hand, messy and sticky, and then he shudders and goes limp against the wall, head on Spencer’s shoulder. It takes Spencer another minute to catch up to him, but when he does it’s amazing; sparks up and down his spine, colors behind his eyes, hot and then cold rolling across his arms and pooling in his stomach. He’s probably drooling against Brendon’s mouth, but Brendon’s got both hands on Spencer’s hips, helping him stay up when his knees go weak.

“Oh,” says Spencer, when he can breathe again. “Wow.”

“I love you, but we’re kind of gross,” says Brendon, with a happy, teasing smile. “Shower?”

Spencer’s hand wanders down to Brendon’s ass, like it’s been wanting to for weeks. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, we haven’t even gotten to this yet,” and squeezes.

Brendon squeaks and laughs and wriggles against Spencer, and Spencer could stand there forever, but he’s getting cold again, and they’ve got wet pants around their ankles, dripping on the carpet. “And then,” Brendon adds thoughtfully, “I even have a bed around here somewhere.”

“You always were a good planner,” Spencer tells him. Brendon laughs, delighted, and shows him the way upstairs.

\--

There’s a knock on the door. Spencer feels like it must be the middle of the night, but when he blinks at Brendon’s clock, it’s actually almost nine. Brendon’s fast asleep, one arm thrown over Spencer and hair in his face, and it tugs on Spencer’s heart in a funny way. He’s going to wake up to that every single morning from now on. Spencer bites his lip to stop from laughing.

Whoever is at the door is persistent. Spencer wonders if Shane’s lost his keys. He rolls out from under Brendon’s arm and kisses his forehead, because he can’t help himself, and then pulls on his pants and walks downstairs.

Ryan’s at the door. What the hell. At least it’s finally sunny out. Spencer shades his eyes.

“I thought you might be here,” says Ryan. He might look expressionless to someone else, but Spencer knows smug when he sees it. “How’s it going?”

“Go away, Ryan,” says Spencer firmly.

Ryan grins. “That good, huh? So I was… What’s the word? Right? Completely, totally, utterly right, just like I always am?”

“Ryan,” Spencer complains. It’s not entirely out of the range of possibility that Ryan came by just to be a jackass.

Ryan is still obviously trying not to laugh. “I came by because you left your wallet at my place. You were in kind of a rush.”

Spencer glares. He’d say something really cutting about how stupid Ryan was about Jon, but there are footsteps behind him. They both turn. Brendon’s standing on the stairs, blinking sleepily, balancing with one hand against the wall. He’s wearing Shane’s pajama pants again, and he looks tired and well-fucked and happy, just the way Spencer had suspected he would that night in the hotel. He smiles, the same smile that’s always made Spencer want to get up in the morning.

“Thanks, I have to go,” says Spencer shortly. He flashes a grin at Ryan and shuts the door. He throws the wallet on the floor, turns the lock, and almost runs back up the stairs.

“Was that Ryan?” Brendon yawns, looking puzzled and mostly asleep.

“Yeah,” says Spencer. “I made him go away.” He smiles and Brendon laughs. And then, just like he’s been wanting to do since Hong Kong, Spencer wraps an arm around Brendon’s waist and half-carries him back upstairs to bed. Brendon gasps, startled, and then laughs again, clinging to Spencer’s neck. He’s still sleepy-soft, with creases from the pillow on his cheek.

“Next vacation, this is where we’re going,” says Spencer.

Brendon lands on his back on the bed and bounces a little, until Spencer lands on top of him. “To my bed?” Brendon asks, trying not to laugh.

“My favorite place,” Spencer agrees solemnly, and kisses him.


End file.
